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“Move,” he shouted, to hell with control and calm, “medic coming through.”
The wall of people parted and… Oh God. The streetlamp bathed her in stark light that revealed everything, too much. Stella lay stone still, her eyes half-open and glazed with pain. A wad of bloodied handkerchiefs lay beside her head, no doubt someone’s attempt to help.
Blood streamed from a scrape along her temple. Most would have gone for that first, but he evaluated fast and ranked it as the least of their worries.
Her thigh wound pumped blood from the femoral artery. She could bleed out in about five minutes.
“Hang on, Stella.” Dropping to the ground, he slapped a hand to her leg and pushed hard while tearing into the medic pack with the other.
He had gear for a splint, tracheotomy, intubation, and countless other lifesaving measures he prayed he wouldn’t need. Finally, thank God, finally his body went into autopilot. A tourniquet for her leg. Bandages. IV antibiotics.
Beside him, Fang treated Agent Brown who kept groaning, “Let me die, let me die.”
Fang muttered, “Not a chance. You’ll face your firing squad.”
How f**king ironic—and unfair—that Stella had aimed to maim when her enemy had shot to kill.
Her fingers clamped his arm weakly. He looked into her eyes again. Bad, bad idea. Professional distance crumbled.
Her lips moved but nothing came out other than a faint whisper he couldn’t understand.
“Shhh,” he soothed, checking her vitals, willing his hand not to shake as he counted her pulse, simultaneously monitoring the drip on the IV. “You’re going to be fine, Stella. I’m that damn good at my job.”
She blinked up at him. Alive. Awake. For how long?
He shouted over his shoulder, rage and desperation chewing through his gut. “We need medical transport. Stat!” He looked back at her, adjusting her elevated feet. “Stella, stay with us. You’re going to be fine. A transfusion or two and you’ll be kicking ass again. I promise.”
As he checked her pupils he realized… she was blinking in a pattern.
“Morse code?” he asked, focusing on her while listening for updates in his earpiece. Where the hell was the ambulance? “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Yes, she blinked. Agent Brown.
“Agent Brown. We know. We’ve got him. You got him, wounded but not dead. You kept him alive for interrogation.” A siren wailed in the distance. “You did great, Stella. Help’s coming.”
She squeezed his arm again. Love. You.
“Love you too.” And he meant it, with every cell in his body that screamed for her to hold on. Not to give up.
Come hell or high water, if she lived, he would do anything to make sure he didn’t lose her again. He’d thought he was protecting her by staying away, but she was right. He’d only been shielding his heart from the possibility of losing another family. Yes, he carried a genetic flaw and he couldn’t forget that, but he’d made different choices for his life than his sister and mother. He sure as hell refused to be like his dad, enabling, avoiding.
Jose monitored her thready heartbeat and willed her to stay with him. He and Stella deserved a life together.
Without her, he had no future. “God, Stella, you can’t die, damn it. I want to spend my life with you.”
But he’d waited a second too long to tell her. Her eyes stayed closed, no more blinking messages.
She’d passed out cold.
***
Pain hovered just below the surface under a blanket of drugs.
Part of Stella wanted to stay under the numbing fog, and another part of her insisted she needed to wake up, even if that meant facing the agony of… gunshot wounds.
The hellish scenario flashed through her mind in fragments. Brown’s betrayal. Shooting him. Him shooting her.
Jose’s shout of horror piercing her headset.
